


Heartbeats

by boyfinch (dovekeeping)



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3536801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovekeeping/pseuds/boyfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus laments Achilles' destiny to die as a hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeats

If heroes are destined to die, I wouldn’t dare be one of them.

And so introduces our hero. 

You fondle the blond boy’s curls, a boy whose lungs are full of wistful breathy sighs. Head in the clouds, always – his head in the hands of fate, always. Destiny – specifically being destined to die - can do anything and everything to a young boy whose heart flutters like a dove in a golden cage – it can cause the bird to swell and grow until its chest bursts, the cage ruptures and its wings are free. Until then, his wings are clipped, his fingers tangled in the threads of his inevitably short life. You sigh. 

You can’t help but be a hero. 

Perhaps.

Your fingers – yours and his - skim the surface of the limpid lake, and you mirror one another. His tan, freckled fingers above your long, gentle ones. Two sides of a coin, separated by a membrane of water here, destiny somewhere else. He will go where you cannot follow. Such is a life in love.

What if I said that I loved you?

A beat. A flutter of wings in the olive branches. A gentle trickle of laughter, a voice lost underwater. You cannot speak. 

That I would die for you?

Patroclus?

Do you not understand?

Memories, tumbling down the canyon that splits your mind, a faint rumble between the mountaintops. A cascade of dreams that are all thought to be true, someday, if you let them. No, you cannot.

I said, do you not understand?

A choked voice, a churning in the water. Watery eyes cannot meet, not now. 

Patroclus?

You will always be a hero. 

Your fingers once more sail against one another on the lake, trapping the clear water in your fingerprints, as if your blood were mixing. He closes his eyes. The bird beats against the cage with all its might, but you do not know. Your pulse pounds against your skin, your entire being composed of dread, the dread that had been saved perhaps for this day, or the day you knew he would leave.

Always. They have said it, and it shall be. 

But I shall be yours. Is that not enough? 

Silence. 

Patroclus?

I do not want you. Not if you shall die. 

His fingertips, and then his palm, graze the diamond edge of your jaw. You flinch and the tears surge forth. Not yet. Not now. Not this. You see his eyes, and they catch you. They grasp your wrist and pull you down, down until you are suffocating. The caged bird sings within him when he kisses you. And you can do nothing. Not this. 

Yes, he says, and he holds your face. Yes, I shall die. But you, too, shall die. Is that not enough?

Not if he shall take you from me. 

I shall be taken, no matter what the way. 

Not that way. 

You lay a hand on his chest, where the bird beats its wings to the irregular beats of his heart. Something swells within you and the water grows warmer. He is mortal, not like you, but he has a heart that beats like yours does. You bring your eyes to his and, while they shine brighter, they are eyes like yours. His skin, though tough and beautiful, is skin like yours. His skin, so warm beneath your touch, to one day be rendered stiff and cold, his mortal heart to cease its beating. 

No. Not that way. Not any way. I do not want to know you if you will be a hero. Not if it means your death.

I owe them nothing.

He means the Achaeans. Dismay dissolves your temper and you cry. 

I owe them nothing. I am only for you. For you, Patroclus, and not this war.

Then I have killed you. You are my hero, always. For I am afraid that I love you.

And you weep, you weep for him though he is not felled, like some graceful, bountiful tree. Your fingers curl against the wings of his thrumming heart and though you know it is hapless you refuse him – he has already saved you, and his tie to his destiny cannot be revoked, nor prevented. Not now. Not this. 

Then I shall die proud. Whether that be by Hector, or by your own heart, Patroclus. 

Your pride is misplaced.

You falter through your words like a child babbling for what it wants through its tears. It is done, then. His path already affirmed before him, your own heart having stolen him way from the life he could have had, without you, without death. You have killed him.

I know not of pride. But my heart is full, Patroclus - and it is right.


End file.
